


A Son of His Time

by Evelyna



Series: Dilemma 'verse [3]
Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Horsemen, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evelyna/pseuds/Evelyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos: A study in contradictions. How can such a deeply decent man be so casually cruel?<br/>He might not remember the events that happened all these millennia ago, but he never escaped them, either.<br/>From the Gods’ Chosen to the instrument of their defeat, from the conqueror to the conquered. However far he fell, he would survive.<br/>Grow stronger.<br/>And fight another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Live and To Learn

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my beta reader readergirl1013. This is the wonderful lady who can deal with me taking months to edit a five hundred word snippet and still not get impatient. You're awesome!
> 
> Also, while this story is marked complete, there is - obviously - a lot of room for more snapshots, so... prompts are welcome.

He grew up in the city and worked hard as all the slaves did and went to the temple and celebrated the holy days as the gods had decreed when they had made the world.

He had never _believed_ in gods. 

Indeed, he had never needed to, for they walked the earth before his very eyes. They reigned supreme, they fought each other for dominance, they demanded subservience of the mortals, they commanded vast armies of demons, they held the power over life and death, and magic was theirs to command. 

_ Knowing _ made _believing_ superfluous. 

Everyone knew that the gods existed. 

So, when a band of robbers took all he had and murdered his family and stabbed him too and he awoke anew, covered in his own blood but with nary a scratch on him, he never questioned that the gods must have chosen him.

What for, and whether that was good or bad was another matter. Frightened, he left, and he ran as fast and as far as he could. He made another live in a nomadic tribe and kept his miraculous return to life a secret so the gods would not hear of his whereabouts. 

Yet his face remained unlined, and his body was no longer as frail as mortal flesh was wont to be. What injuries were done to it, be it accidental or with purpose, would heal in a frightening display of blue light without leaving scars.

He left again when somebody noticed it. Many times he made lives and left them, staying far from the big towns where the gods trod, until he knew the whole land, and he didn’t know where to go anymore, and he noticed that generations had passed and still his face was young.

He left the land of his birth then, and traveled far and wide. 

He collected languages like he had collected pebbles as a boy, and he learned of the reasons for their existence. He learned of stories, of myths and legends and parables, and he collected them too. He remembered the peoples that he met by the stories they told, the only thing that he could take with him wherever he went.

When he learned that it was possible to make words visible in simple drawings, he studied these too. His first pictographs were scratched into the dirt next to a river and erased by his teacher, whose face was deeply lined and darkened like weathered rock, because he had seen impossible six dozen winters. 

While he learned how to carve and paint words, he stopped wishing to be mortal and untouched by the gods. 

When his teacher died, he traveled even farther.


	2. To Prod and Stir

It was a hard time for all of them. Nearly everyone had lost a loved one, either in the fight or afterwards to the executions.

If Ra had expected this to destroy the rebellion, he was wrong. Resentment was higher than before and slowly turned into a deep and burning hatred that was all the more deadly because it was forcibly tempered with caution.

Daniel was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had become an integral part of the resistance.

His words had inspired the first rebellion, and though they had not been victorious and the punishment had been harsh, he who had spoken blasphemy against the gods still lived.

He was in a dangerous position.

At the moment, the people believed in him because he had defied Ra and yet lived. Any moment though somebody could get the idea that Daniel had been sent by another god to undermine Ra, or by Ra himself to test their faith.

Both conclusions would mean Daniel’s death, and while he didn’t value his life very highly since Jack, Sam and Teal’c had died, he knew that his death would suffocate the resistance and cement Ra’s reign.

Daniel knew that he had to do something before the hatred boiled over. So, when he noticed that Jaffa started to patrol in pairs or groups of four, he called a few young men and started planning traps.

Never twice in the same place, Jaffa disappeared.

Digging workable pitfalls in the sandy ground was demanding and delicate work, but it paid off. Soon they had enough Zats and Staffs to actually train some of their people, and instead of building traps, they laid ambushes.

When he was brought overheard whispers of a poorly guarded shipment of weapons that was to come soon, he knew that the time to strike had come.

Good thing that Ra’s very own lo’taur, a man with a greek nose and sharp brown eyes, had his own reasons to fear and hate the gods.


	3. To Study and Observe

Although they revered him, they never called him a son of the gods as they might have done only a century ago. Their victory was too fresh, too joyous in its success and too tragic in its losses, the gods had fallen too far for the people to believe that something good might have come from them.

In another century, General Titen knew, the stories would have changed considerably. Perhaps they would call him a god then, or an evil spirit, or something else entirely. But he was familiar enough with the birth and life of legends to know that he was unlikely to be forgotten (soon).

Already they attributed things to him that others had done, but at least they were still accurate. He suspected that it was because his name was the only one the people could understand and recognize. Even he, who had practiced different tongues for centuries, had trouble with Djek and Zä-män-fa, and he knew that his pronunciation of Dan’yel’s name was slightly off.

Dan’yel claimed that it was good that the legends would credit Titen with the success of the rebellion, for the spirits that knew the future had told him that he and the other djinn-people who had come to this land twice must be forgotten, else they could not return to aid them in the far future.

Since he had arrived here, shortly after the first, failed uprising nearly five floods ago, Titen had enjoyed many talks with the unearthly man.

In the beginning he had been amazed that a being that could so casually step into and out of the river of time and even alter it would deign to reside amongst the mortals (and not so mortals) for so long. 

But his understanding of the magics involved had slowly grown, and Dan’yel’s conviction that he would return in some millennia made him think that he likely was immortal too, though it had to be a different kind of immortality for he couldn’t feel the telling warning of his arrival.

He had, of course, denied it, but Titen was not fooled. The pain and wisdom in Dan’yel’s eyes and his sheer knowledge of the world and the gods’ magics could not have been collected in a single mortal live. 

Titen knew only too well that beings of power restricted themselves in what they spoke of. He was glad that none of his kind of immortals would seek to harm Dan’yel, whom he looked up to and liked.

He only wished that he would one day understand his own duties in this world as well as this ancient spirit in mortal shell.


	4. To Err and Fail

The gods, he thought, be they true or false, were quite lacking in imagination.

While the placement of their so-called “secret” caches within their temples varied, the high priest would usually know the exact place, and they could generally be opened by anyone who could read the god’s language.

Of course, there were only a few left who had mastered it, and the meaning of the symbols on the hidden doors was rapidly being lost.

But Dan’yel had taught him well, and he was willing to dedicate however much time was necessary.

He had translated all the symbols, carefully noting every colour, size and depth of the seemingly engraved shapes. The sun’s throne on earth, only the worthy may enter, strike down the unworthy and so on. Slowly, he started to test them. Could they be pushed in? Could they be moved? Did they look different if the light came from another angle?

He was unsurprised to see that the eyes of the image of Ra shimmered more than even the clearest gem could account for if the light hit them directly. Nor was he surprised that they were too high to reach without building some support, which he couldn’t do alone.

Still, that didn’t faze him. There was _something_ , and there had to be a practical way of opening whatever hidden space there was.

If the god wanted or needed something in a hurry, he certainly wouldn’t wait for his slaves to erect a scaffold first. Nor would he ever do something like this himself.

Considering his experiences at Ra’s court, he decided that the floor underneath the image was a good place to examine. He wiped and blew away the sand on and between the stone slabs.

He was not disappointed: The sun had not moved more than three hand breaths before he found what seemed like a little pebble between two slabs. When he tried to move it, it slid back and forth quite easily but couldn’t be picked up.

He looked up. Just like he had thought. To use the mechanism, one had to cower before the god’s feet. With a snort of derision, he pushed the pebble to the far right.

The blinding flash of the image’s eyes was as unexpected as the burning pain searing through his whole body. 

* * *

With a gasp, life returned.

Sitting up a little, Memitim took in his burnt clothing and the spotless ground around him. Netherworld, he hated the gods and even more he hated that their will still tainted the lands they had reigned after they were long gone.

With gritted teeth, he lowered himself again, even though it galled him to once more kneel as if in supplication before one that had caused him pain.

This time, he pushed the pebble to the left.

As he raised his head to look up again, the scene that greeted his eyes was just as awe inspiring as had, no doubt, been intended.

The wall parted around Ra’s image, walls that were higher than ten men slowly shifted aside. The image that remained was no longer a mostly flat stone relief, but a statue so lifelike that Memitim was on his feet and gripped his weapon before he realised that it was not, in fact, alive. Slowly, the statue moved backward into the newly opened room, until it was at the very back, where it towered over the room and seemed to watch over it.

Memitim caught himself admiring the incredible feat of magical construction, even as he fought to keep his disdain.

No matter, he tried to convince himself, how knowledgeable or proficient they were, they were gone, driven out of this world. So here he was, seeking out the vestiges of their taint.

Experience and necessity, slavery and servitude had taught him to wield the weapons of the demon armies, so that was what he sought out now.

He chose a staff for its greater impact and fired, into the artefacts and statues, the finery and the luxury items. He destroyed as much as possible, and when the (old, poorly enchanted) weapon ran out of fire, he used it as a club to smash what was left.

There was barely anything left unscathed when he noticed movement in the shards of the jars that he smashed. Curiosity drew him closer.

That was a mistake.


	5. To Kill and Revel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I killed. But I didn't just kill fifty, I didn't kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed TEN thousand! And I was good at it. And it wasn't for vengeance, it wasn't for greed. It was because...I liked it. Cassandra was nothing. Her village was nothing. Do you know who I was? I was Death. Death – Death on a horse. When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night.   
> ~ Methos, in ‘Comes a Horseman’

Usually, they would assess a village and find out whether there were any serious obstacles. Though it was rare, there was the odd capable guard or an immortal.

But sometimes, they simply attacked. No preparation, no knowledge of what might await them, no plan. Just the thrill of throwing themselves into a fight that they were not guaranteed to win.

They wouldn’t loose – they couldn’t loose. If the first try didn’t force the village to its knees, the second would leave no survivors.

It was intoxicating to know that nothing could stand against them. That neither gods nor weapons could stop them. That no prayer could save those they wanted to take. That they were a scourge like none that had ever existed before.

.

Hot air blew around them as they spurred their steeds into gallop in broad daylight without bothering to formulate a plan or even exchange a word or glance.

Hooves thudded onto sand and threw it into the air, naked blades shone in the sunlight as the horsemen rode into the town, leaving a red trail from the moment they passed the first guards.

Death’s mouth stretched into a feral grin, a savage expression that bared his teeth and froze their victim’s blood.

The sound of metal whistling through the air, then slicing flesh and bone, of hooves on fallen bodies, the cries of his brothers and the screams of their prey combined to form a symphony that he knew well, that he enjoyed and loved. Cold golden eyes glittered with bloodlust and cruel amusement as Death urged his horse onward, riding down a woman holding a little child and forcing his way through the street full of panicking people.

Uncaring of the carnage that he left in his wake, he emerged onto the marketplace, where he felt his true quarry.

Pulling the reins with one hand he made his horse rear up on its hind legs and lifted his bloodstained blade.

From behind the skull-mask he scanned the frightened crowd and searched for the one that was not quite as scared and bore a sword. His gaze locked onto a young looking, muscular man with bronze toned skin and black hair.

Eyes lighting up with eagerness, Death brought his blade down to point at the one he had identified as immortal.

“I challenge you!”

For a moment the other seemed to contemplate doing something like talking or running, but then he squared his shoulders and pulled his sword out of his cloak.

If he had assumed that Death would bother with a fair fight, he was proven wrong. Death spurred his horse and attacked from its back, his higher position and secure seat giving him a great advantage. He didn’t bother acknowledging the deep slash the other inflicted on his leg and hip and brought his full power to bear in a single strike.

The blade sang, then in tasted blood once more, biting into the other's neck.

The headless corpse fell down; the head thudded on the ground a few feet away.

Slowly, blue mist began to rise.

Then, it seemed as though all the gods of the nether world had broken loose.


	6. To Wake and Realize

Pain.

Anger.

Kronos! How dare he!?

Betrayal!

How dare that pathetic brute strike him, cause him pain?

Pain.

Fear.

His chest ached unbearably, breathing became more and more difficult. He tried to move. Immediately, the pain darkened his vision, the stars of the night sky vanished into darkness as he died.

* * *

Pain in his chest, his breathing laboured.

What-

Kronos!

How dare he strike him!? A God!

Anger rose.

He had been betrayed!

He remembered the dagger in his back, piercing his heart. Instinct made him try to reach for it.

Pain flared, his vision darkened.

Before he succumbed, he realized that his wrists were bound.

* * *

The first thing he registered when he came to was pain, the second was heat and brightness.

Kronos! That inferior animal had stabbed him in the back!

As he coughed, the jarring made the pain flare up, but he couldn’t stop. He barely managed to spit out a mouth full of congealed blood before the world darkened once more.

* * *

When he awoke, he consciously relaxed to minimize the pain.

A dagger from behind! Oh, Kronos would pay!

As would that miserable wretch of a woman because of whom this had happened!

Carefully he tested his movements. His wrists were still bound, but his feet were free. He was lying on his back, looking up into the cloudless sky, arms spread wide. Even more carefully he moved his head.

His right wrist was bound to a peg with coarse rope. Pain threatened to overwhelm him again as he turned his head to the left.

As he caught sight of the sword in his chest, seething anger suffused him.

Kronos’ sword, nailing him to the ground. Oh, he would pay!

He was imagining numerous torturous deaths for his fellow horseman while blood slowly filled his left lung. Air grew sparse, and the pain worsened. When he couldn’t hold the cough back anymore, he felt how the movement made the sword bite into his heart.

* * *

He awoke once more, the first stars above him and the lingering warmth of the day told him that it was late in the evening. Pain in his chest made him wordlessly curse Kronos.

While he was extremely angry at his brother, he also questioned his own judgement. Why had he turned his back to Kronos? He knew that the other was prone to violent anger, they all were. Still, Kronos didn’t know how to hold a grudge for long, a few more deaths and things should be back to normal.

Of course, he would make his brother pay – and enjoy it. 

Imagining how to best accomplish his revenge helped him to ignore his pain and passed the time till death.

* * *

He came to in the coldest hours of the night, shivering lightly. The cloudless sky was nearly black and adorned with countless stars. The cold somewhat numbed his pain and cleared his mind.

He was hardly comfortable, but he had long learned to ignore discomfort, and he felt calm for the first time since… he couldn’t even remember.

Stretching his quickening as he hadn’t done since before joining (leading, a small voice in the back of his head insisted, controlling) the horsemen, he found his brothers, Silas and Kronos sound asleep, Kaspian keeping watch. He also felt the young slave, Cassandra, tossing and turning in restless sleep.

He surprised himself with a thought of pity for the nearly broken woman. Who was she to awaken his compassion? Yet even while he asked himself that, he remembered that he had once been in a position akin to hers: at the mercy of one without mercy, living and dying at another’s whim.

Once, he would have nurtured her, taken her as a wife or possibly even as student.

Why had he not done so? When had he turned into a monster akin to the ones he had once fought against.

As death, whose name he had so blithely taken, reached for him once more, he found the answer and understood the connections, but then he lost them in the darkness.

* * *

It was still cold, but the sky was lighter. Morning approached, and clarity came with it.

So did Kronos.

His brother laughed gaily, the anger of the previous day dispersed like smoke. A fine joke, he laughed, and had he not gotten one over Death! Grinning, he pulled the sword out of it’s grisly sheath.

As his mouth mindlessly spoke agreement and cheerfully taunted Kronos, scorning the pain he was in, Memitim slowly unfolded from the depths of memory that he had been pressed _had folded himself had hidden from one stronger and oh god so so evil_ into, carefully stretched his newly freed limbs under Kronos’ unknowing gaze and rose to true awareness.

* * *

The next time they came close to a settlement, he skilfully steered his brothers away from it. And if the slave woman ran and ran until she was nowhere to be found, well, it certainly hadn’t been his plan.

Kronos was, after all, their leader.


	7. To Arrive in the Present

Methos. A man. A myth. The oldest immortal alive.

A convenient legend, created to make all those would-be hunters chase their own tail, searching for a man who had no face, who could be everyone or no-one at all.

An impulsive creation of his youth, a diversion at a time when a quick getaway was more important than the eventual consequences.

Not that at that time – or centuries, millennia later, even – he had dreamed of the possibility of applying that much sought-after label to himself, of actually inheriting the title he, himself, had thoughtlessly created.

Methos, the title that had, in his mind, become his name.

The name that made for such a frustrating inconvenience now.

Now he himself was the holy grail of head hunters and Watchers alike, and while ‘researching Methos as Adam Pierson’ was a delicious hiding place, he had underestimated the shy Dr. Pierson’s value to those who sought Methos.

He had allowed himself to fall into one of the most dangerous traps – to be blinded by his own knowledge.

_He_ knew that ‘Methos’ history’ was so much hot air, that the first time the name was spoken, it was already credited with the weight of five millennia.

But of course there were those that took it seriously.

Time to skip town. Country. Continent.

(Maybe farther. But he didn’t know that yet.)


End file.
